“Yes, but I want to get to the town.”
“Town, town! Oh, I have no English,” said the man; and off he started like a frightened bullock. The poor fellow was probably at first terrified at seeing an Englishman, then confused at hearing an Englishman speak Welsh, a language which the Welsh in general imagine no Englishman can speak, the tongue of an Englishman as they say not being long enough to pronounce Welsh; and lastly utterly deprived of what reasoning faculties he had still remaining by my asking him for the town of Llanfair, there being properly no town.
I went on and at last getting out of the lane, found myself upon the road, along which I had come about two hours before; the house of the miller was at some distance on my right. Near me were two or three houses and part of the skeleton of one, on which some men, in the dress of masons, seemed to be occupied. Going up to these men I said in Welsh to one, whom I judged to be the principal, and who was rather a tall fine-looking fellow:
“Have you heard a sound of Gronwy Owain?”
Here occurred another instance of the strange things people do when their ideas are confused. The man stood for a moment or two, as if transfixed, a trowel motionless in one of his hands, and a brick in the other; at last giving a kind of gasp, he answered in very tolerable Spanish:
“Si, señor! he oido.”
“Is his house far from here?” said I in Welsh.
“No, señor!” said the man, “no esta muy lejos.”
“I am a stranger here, friend, can anybody show me the way?”
“Si Señor! este mozo luego acompañara usted.”